


Sanguinary

by marylex



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-10
Updated: 2007-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marylex/pseuds/marylex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you think you could take him right on the battlefield, right in the blind, staring face of death, ignoring the bodies around you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanguinary

Galahad's blood-smeared face is tilted into Percival's hands when you find them on the bank of the stream, a tableau in amber shafts of sunlight. He's already shrugged out of his armor, down to tunic and boots, his hauberk and shield piled at the base of a tree, but you find yourself facing one of Percival's wickedly sharp knives, poised for flight, as you push your way out of the brush.

"You're alive."

Your voice is hoarse in your own ears, your breath ragged and ripping at the inside of your chest as you pause, wrapped in the thick scents of copper and iron, the moans of the dying echoing behind you in the nearby glen. You barely feel your axe slip to the ground from numb fingers.

You've been circling the edges of the field, bringing down stragglers, burning off the remains of the berserker fury that grips you in battle, but you're stalking different prey now. Galahad meets you, slipping from under Percival's hand on his shoulder to put himself in your path, closing with you as surely as he's faced you across the practice circle with a live blade in his hands. There's no falter, no stumble, only two certain steps toward you as you snake out a hand, only the slightest curl of his lip as you feel the bones of his wrist grind in your hard grip when you pull him close. You watch from some distance outside yourself as your free hand rises to touch his face like a blind man trying to ken the shape of him, fingertips skittering across tender eyelids and fluttering lashes and the sharp angle of his jaw, catching on the scratch of his still-sparse beard.

"You're alive," you say, again, bringing up both hands now to frame his face, thumbs smearing through the sweat and blood on his cheekbones.

Your breath escapes you in a huff that's half laughter, and maybe you're trying to convince yourself, to truly believe he made it out of the tangle of flailing limbs you saw when he went down, off his horse, into a swarming scramble of Woads in the thick of the ambush - the last you saw of him until surfacing from your battle rage to track him here in the aftermath. The wave of relief staggers you, leaves you sick, as if you'd bring up your meat like a breeding woman.

You're proud Galahad is proving himself increasingly skilled with a bow, even if it's not quite the uncanny ability of Tristan, or Owein - you're proud and you're relieved, pleased the weapon keeps him to a distance and out of the fray for at least part of each battle. You can imagine his indignation and anger if he knew your thoughts, but you can't - yet - manage to set them aside. Your cousin's death is still too keen, Gareth's sword still too bright in the ground of the ever-growing boneyard, a wound too fresh to bear its like again so soon. And Galahad ... Galahad is alive under your hands, skin hot and slick and smelling of battle, even as the pungent scent of the herbal salve Percival was smearing on his head wound spikes through the haze lingering in your mind. You drop one hand to Galahad's chest, feel it heave with the same breath that feathers hot against your cheek, and his lips move against your jaw as he leans in and whispers to you.

"I'm here." His words slowly take shape. "I'm here, I'm here, you're here, I'm here."

You both ignore Percival as he tucks away his medicaments into the pouch that hangs from his belt and slips back into the brush.

"Here," Galahad says again, and he pulls back, meeting your gaze, wincing as you push one hand through the sticky hair hanging over his eyes. Your fingers catch before breaking a path through matted blood, and his grip bites into your shoulder in response.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," you say, leaning into him, your mouth moving against his as you speak.

Even as you tender the apology, you're weaving your fingers through the tangled silken curls at the nape of his neck and yanking his head back to bare his throat, and then you're pressing kisses and licks and bites down the arched line of it. You almost believe you can feel his blood flowing against your lips through the thin skin, almost believe you can feel the rhythm and the pulse that matches the roaring in your ears, that says _still alive, still alive, still alive_.

Sometimes, you think you could take him right on the battlefield, right in the blind, staring face of death, ignoring the bodies around you.

You bite down, feeling his flesh between your teeth, the curve where neck meets shoulder molded to your mouth, and he shoves you, stumbling now as he steps away from you. You meet his dark, wide-eyed gaze, frozen for the space of two panted breaths, and then he's on you, and it's your turn to stagger back, under the impact of his body against yours, his fingers in your hair, his mouth on your lips. His teeth clack hard against yours before you cup his jaw and he tilts his head just so. He hisses as you run your other hand up his side, and you pull away from a sudden sharp sting at your lip to find fresh blood on his mouth - your blood. You run your tongue across the bite he's left behind and feel your mouth stretch in a mirthless grin as you step into him again. You lap at his mouth, lick into him, holding his face still between your palms and searching for the salty, coppery taste of yourself as if it will slake the bloodlust coiled deep in your gut.

You're so busy trying to devour him that you don't notice, at first, the way he's moving against you, pressing himself into the armor at your hip; it's not until he pulls away from you with a gasp and turns his face to press a cheek into your palm, eyes falling closed, that you realize. You kiss him again, quick hard press of lips as you maneuver him backward, brushing his hands out of the way as he tries to clutch at your armor, tries to wind his fingers around the fastenings and through the buckles, tries to pull them apart. You force him implacably back until he fetches up against a tree, flushed and panting, and then your legs give out and you fall to your knees in front of him, pressing your face into the dark cloth at his hip.

It's a moment's work to slide your hands along his lean thighs, shoving at the skirt of his tunic, and you take the time to mouth your way along the purpling bruise that twists up the outside of one leg, raw and welted and showing the pattern of the mail bashed into his flesh during the battle. You can feel the heat of blood pooling under his skin, and you remember a hiss between clenched teeth and wonder how far up his side the mottled wound extends. He draws in a breath at the feel of your lips and tongue, holding it, tensing against the expectation of pain. Your hand shakes as you raise it, clenching bloody, dirty fingers into a fist in an effort to steady them before stretching, flexing, smoothing them down the length of his thigh, barely skimming, feeling the brush of hair against your palm. He murmurs wordlessly before his fingers twine with yours, and then he presses your cupped hand against his leg, forcing a low, helpless whimper out of his own chest. You can imagine the dull, rotten ache under the curl of your fingers. You smell his arousal through blood and mud and iron, feel him quiver when you lean in and rub your bearded cheek against the inside of his thigh, and then you're nuzzling in, blind and gasping, seeking your way by scent through the folds of fabric that hang around him.

It's quick and messy, both of you too hot already for it to last long, and he moans like something's breaking inside his chest when the head of his cock skids sticky across your cheek and beard. You stretch your jaw wide to take him in a long, downward glide, and he thrusts helplessly into you, nudging against the back of your throat. You choke and pull back, bringing up both hands to his waist to hold him still, and the taste of him is sharp on your tongue, the heft of him thick in your mouth. There's a thin whine above you as your right hand slips and the hardened leather edge of your vambrace glances off his hipbone, and then he's got one hand buried in your hair, fingers of the other clenched bone-white into the bark of the tree at his back as you swallow, choke and swallow again, feeling tears leak from under your lashes as you try to take him deeper. He's chanting your name over and over like some kind of spell or charm and you wonder what kind of protection you carry into battle from such naive workings. You remember your blood in his mouth as you taste a different kind of salt, slick on your lips and your tongue.

You settle back on your heels, looking up at him and licking at his fingers as he reaches down to trace the curve of your lower lip, and then you hold out your hands to catch him, breaking his fall and guiding him down to kneel in front of you. He flings his arms around your shoulders and buries his face in your neck, and you curve one arm around his waist to hold him to you. Your other hand pets him, long slow strokes down his back as he draws in shuddering breaths. He pulls away finally, and you study his eyes, his face, checking for signs of hurt, pushing back matted curls again to examine the wound at his hairline. He ducks away, pushing at your hands impatiently as you try to touch his lips, his cheek, the soft skin inside his elbows - refusing to be deterred as he once again attacks the buckles and straps of your armor.

"Off," he says through gritted teeth as he strips the thick belt from your waist, flinging it away, "get it _off_."

You raise your arms to help him heave the heavy metal and leather of your cuirass to the side, shivering as cool air insinuates itself into the sweat-soaked cloth of your shirt, and then you let yourself fall back under his hands, sprawled on the ground beneath him as he unlaces one vambrace, then the other. You roll your head to the side and close your eyes tight, tight, catching your breath as he raises your right hand to his cheek and bends to trace the exposed skin of your wrist and forearm with his tongue, leaving behind damp patterns like unknown runic designs against your flesh. He curls his fingers into yours and tucks your joined hands against his chest when he leans down and turns your face toward him with his free hand. The kiss is long and slow, salt-sweet and hot, his tongue stroking along the roof of your mouth, sliding out to catch on the rough patch left earlier by his teeth; he settles over you, mouth pressed to yours, breathing into you, and you let your hands rest on his hips, rocking up into his weight. Sitting up, he balances as easily as if he's in the saddle, and nimble fingers, roughened from rein and bowstring, unfasten your breeches, reach inside. Your muscles clench as he wraps a hand around your cock, your hips bucking, your back arching, your fingers digging into his hips through his tunic. You open your eyes to look up at him, a beam of sunlight catching his face as it filters through the leaves above you.

"Ride," you whisper to him. "_Ride_."

He's hard again, already, you can feel him rubbing against you, and you slide one hand up to cup the back of his neck, thumb stroking just below his ear. He steadies himself against your chest, half a hand worked in through the front of your shirt to rest on bare skin, and you rock with him, pushing your hips uncontrollably up into his touch, gliding your free hand from his waist down the length of his thigh, feeling the muscles flex and bunch as he raises himself then presses back down, pulling a choked groan out of you. It's not enough, not nearly enough, and you wrap your hand just above his knee, twist your hips and push, forcing him onto his back, pressing hard into him as he bends one leg to cradle your body against his. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you down, but you catch his other hand in yours, pushing it to the ground above his head, twining your fingers as you thrust against him, and he comes again, keening in the back of his throat, biting his lip to muffle the sound, body arching up into yours like the curve of his bow drawn taut.

You strain against him, rougher now, slamming your hips into the curve of his, your knees sliding on dry leaves and digging into the earth beneath, a low, heavy wave gathering in your belly, at the base of your spine, not enough, not quite enough. You clench your fingers in his, leaning into him, and your hair falls forward around you both, a curtain shading you from the light until he slips his hand from your shoulders to push back the messy strands, fingers combing through tendrils and catching in small braids as he leans up to kiss you, and release rips through you.


End file.
